The Sagarashad
This article contains exerpts from the W.P. Peterson (1910-2001) translation of the Saragarshad, one of the classic works of Colcheshian Mysticism and only available for public translation as of 1954. There are several other translations in circulation, but Peterson's work has stood the test of time with its careful blending of poetry and translation. Peterson received the Dunhauser Prize for Literature in 1964 because of this translation, as well as his many other contributions to the world of poetry, non-fiction, and Colcheshian literary scholarship, of which he is the foremost writer within Common. Included in the contents of this digital copy are: The Preamble and Introduction, Book I: Dyelnlelov (or the Going Forth); Book 2: Bheli Gihame (Utter Darkness); and Book 3: Zche Muhajiri (The Return). Preamble and Introduction The structure of The Sagarashad is comprised of Three Testaments, which are divided into ten books, seventeen books, and three books respectively. The first two testaments are shared with the Mazdaki and Arkbali faith, and contain a brief description of the creation of the cosmos and the ordering of energy and matter. The Sagarashad ''differs in that it contains a third and final Testament, ''The Testament of Sagir, which acts as a counterweight to the contents of the previous parts. In many ways it mirrors the structure of an essay style which would emerge in the 17th century known as the Dialectic. The Mazdaki scripture is seen as forming the basis of the point, the Arkbali the counterpoint, and the Sagiri the whole refutation.Note: this arrangement of the three testaments is a result of Northern and Vargelian scholarship and is not viewed in such a manner by native Colcheshians. The tripartite division of scripture is wholly common and accepted not only by the people of this region but is a common means of ordering holy sayings and works throughout Eurf. Modern scholarship now rejects this view, and attempts to define the Sagiri denomination as an upwelling of dissatisfaction against settled religion's attempts to convert and control nomadic tribes. Great strides, these scholars say, have been made to link the genesis of Sagiri thought to the natural growth of the rational mind wrestling with its irrational surroundings. Within the ivory cages of the Northern universities, men of great breeding have attempted to link a chain of causality which binds the long lost followers of this faith to the outgrowth of science and technology which erupted forth from the north and polluted all surrounding lands. These are unfortunately, bum fibres woven into a intellectual carpet of malignant quality, so aggressively poor in it's creation that it insults both the feet of the master who walks upon it and the dirt floor which it is set upon. There is little in literature or religion to link the Sagiris to any other known cult in the world. There is little evidence to link the followers of Sagir to even their own tribes and cities. There is even less information about the aforementioned Sagir himself, who origins are untouched within the scriptures. Apocryphal texts state Sagir was born from the womb of a ten month corpse, the dead son of a dead tribeswoman, succored in extended birth by the very flesh of the one who bore him. The texts say he was excised from his mother's womb by the gnawing of a wolf, and when the beast had exposed him to the light, Sagir bit into his throat and tasted thus the lifeblood which all tribesmen come to know. Sagir was said to have been a hunter with this tribe, and a warrior with another. He is said to have been born by a man, a corpse, and by a stone. All these tales are fanciful of course, but they convey the same reverence given to esteemed ancestors long before they pass, a practice I am told was once common among the tribes of Confederate Manikewan who once wandered the Plains of Galros. He is at once a man, a myth, a monolith, and a fixture of Colcheshian society, though the Inquisition exercised much effort towards the damning of his memory. I say at once to the reader of this tome that what is contained in this work is unlikely to be true to the original Sagarashad, which was first scribbled on horseflesh a thousand years ago. Each older edition uncovered reveals new changes in the structure of the three testaments. Unlike other religious tomes it is important to remember that there was never an intended reverence attached to the book which held Sagir's words, only to Sagir himself. No tribesman of the Cherkiss holds any one's word to be true alone. Even in the presence of a Sage, one is careful not to take too much at face value. Words, the Cherkiss say, are the note changes of a cold wind. The progress is steady over the course of a season's telling but the daily movements are without reckoning. This approach to history, indeed to narrative as a whole, makes the Colcheshians extremely resilient to outside study and classification. Nevertheless, this work is based off of a compilation of seven different editions, dated over a period from 1450-1870, the latter of which underwent extensive restructuring and censorship to avoid detection by the Inquisition. There were no less than four separate languages utilized in this translation, all of which had to be distilled and compared against Common idioms and verse for effect. Changes in orthography over that period and changes within the languages themselves forced me to enlist the help of several esteemed colleagues, such as Dr. Maryame Windser of the University of West Drumlin, Dr. Gylaka Marstok of the Arstok Institute, and Debra Marinezs, from the Kartvelash Museum of Antiquities in Colches. While the majority of writing and research was done alone, translation and conversion could not have been done without involvement from these fine fellows. I would also extend a gracious thanks to their students, who also assisted in translation. Lastly, I would be blindly eternally if I did not mention the most important contributor to this work, my beloved Marjorie; who at all hours critiqued my prose and slashed my poetry whenever she found herself glossing over my notes. The Third Testament Book 1: Dyelnlelov (Or the Going Forth) Chapter 1: Sagir Goes Forth and Encounters the Priest of Rikalik When Sagir was nineteen years old he left the tribe where had had grown and went down into the mountains of the Kartvelash. In the solitude of Mazdak's wilderness he dwelt among the stones and beasts and gave blessings to the stars. For two years he dwelt alone until a time when he grew tired and lonely and said to himself, "I am in want of my brethren". And he came down from the mountains and went down to the city of Amabeyk. When he arrived in Amabeyk he came upon the market square and saw gathered a great congregation knelt down in prayer. They knelt for the sun had seen fit to scorch their crops and cast drought upon the land. At the head of the host a priest stood clothed in the garments of the storm god Rikalik, and he chastised the people for their faithlessness. "Look you upon these calamities", said he "for the gods who control the Mutagbh of this land have pierced the veil of your wickedness and cursed you. Their altars laid bare in times of wealth while all the land bloomed and the horses drank up the sweet waters. Now your children die parched in their cribs and your fields lie fallow." And the priest deemed that indeed a reckoning was upon the city and the congregation agreed; for not one among them did not keep a loaf hidden from the tax collectors or the priests when they came by on their rounds. But Sagir, who had dwelt in the wilderness two years hence and had wanted for none, though he had no altar, saw the venom in these words and spoke thus to the priest, rebuking him. "I come down from the mountains of Kartvelash, where I lived two years without milk or honey, without priest or temple, and yet look upon my belly." And Sagir lifted his tunic, displaying his naked corpulence. "My meals were full and plenty, gathered by my own hand, in lands so harsh even the goatherders were strangers to me. Yet I am fat before the gods of this city and their congregation. What offering would I have made to be blessed with this bounty?" The priest did not answer, for he knew Sagir to be a stranger. Instead he set eyes upon the morbid flesh of Sagir's belly, and licked his lips, for though he were a priest he had not eaten three days hence. And he pointed at the prophet and he rallied the masses saying, "here comes a fat goat down from the mountains, ripe off the cud of the cliffside grass, a foreigner who knows neither our gods nor our ways. Surely Rikalik has seen fit to save us from our hunger with this offering." And the people grew aware of their starvation, and the stomachs of the masses grumbled as one as they looked upon the wild prophet. The Green King, Envy, ruled over their hearts, for the presence of the prophet was a reminder of their misfortune. And they did not heed Sagir, who spoke at first of calmness and then of reason, and advanced as one upon him, newly come to their town. The Priest of Rikalik, seeing their hunger and fearing that they would devour their man without offering a morsel to him, called forth from the back pardons for the terrible sin they were about to commit, so long as they gave offering to Rikalik first. And cleared of their conscience, they set upon the prophet and attempted to slay him. But Sagir, who knew of their wicked intentions, took from the ground a bone torn from the jaw of a horse. With terrible fury he smote down the starving mass, un-blessed by the powers of any god but himself, and drank up the blood of his foes as it spurted forth. And when he had slain every member of the congregation he strode forth to the Priest of Rikalik and grappled him. By the elbow he dragged him down the high street to the temple of his god and broke his foe upon the alter as a young lamb, freshly plucked from the spring herd, is given up for sacrifice. Then, taking the priestly dagger from it's place, he flayed the face from the head, and sewed it to his tunic. When none came to confront him, Sagir left the city upon the north path, and made his way towards the lands of the Degë, enemies of his kin. And for many years, long after the bones of the prophets and disciples were ground to dust and spread by the beastly winds upon the plain, the men of Amabeyk would speak cursed oaths upon Sagir, the Many-Faced; so named for the ghastly visages of the city priests sewed into his cloak, a walking blasphemy against the Dream and all its sleepers. Chapter 2: Sagir Enters the City of the Degë; Meeting With the Rich Man; And the Letting of Blood After he had walked the path north some ten days, Sagir came upon the town of Ashepoklë, which was then ruled over by Count Brelev, cousin to the Kagan of the Degë. When Sagir came to the outskirts of that place he could not enter by the gate; for armed men stood guard against the enemies of the Degë, of whom Sagir of the Chérkiss was one. Thus, Sagir waylaid a caravan and besought the merchant for a robe, and said he had grown cold in the open plain, and had no shelter from the cruel wind. The merchant was moved to pity, not out of respect for the prophet's endurance but out of irritation; for the hospitality of the Degë was lacking even in ancient times, and they were renowned for their distaste of begging. Having acquired a robe, Sagir made way past the guards and seeing a banquet held at the Count's hold, entered his hall unannounced and sat himself at the guest's table, where he began to eat. Count Brelev noted the arrival of Sagir and, having grown tired of the company of nobles and philanderers, sat himself opposite at the guest table, a place of humility reserved for those of low class. And taking note of Sagir, who was a stranger to his lands, the Count spoke thusly. "I greet you fair traveler, to this hall of mine, though I know you come uninvited. I give you sovereignty over this table, so at least one of us may be free." And he gestured in a sign of toast, throwing wine over his shoulder. Sagir was puzzled, for while the Count was indeed powerful he was also unhappy. "Why do you cast such miserable stares? Are you not well? Have you not this domain under your thumb and your every whim met?" And the count looked back at Sagir with melancholy, for though he were a rich man his life was far from free. "When I was a young man," the Count began, "I had freedom to come and go as I pleased. My days were full of wandering. I journeyed with the Great Hoxlo Degë and campaigned in Übykh and Maraba. In the sun my blade was soaked in the blood of my foe, and in the moonlight my sword laid buried in many a different sheathe. Truly it is the traveler who is most free within the Dream, for the ties which bind us are loosed when a man has no home, no family to provide for, no courtiers to order or bless. When Hoxlo Degë wrestled this realm from the previous chief I willingly placed myself in bondage: I took a manor and traded the warmth of a campfire for the chill of a castle. I made dowry and bought a wife from a wealthy merchant. I have two sons who will succeed me and rule over my realm and die frozen and alone in their beds, wanting for none, never having smelled the shit of horses or the death reek of men. Dear traveler, you have tasted the wandering life and know it to be most virtuous, for to live free of one's fellow man is to live as an animal. And are not animals the most virtuous of beings?" And the Prophet nodded, for he too felt this way. Then Sagir asked the Rich Man, "if this life pains you so, why do you not leave it?" The Count sighed. "I could not leave this life, though I have often dreamed of it. I have a realm dependent on my word, I have children who break their fast upon the meat my butcher brings. I have a wife with a powerful family. These are the bonds I have willingly taken." Sagir heard the Count's words and he smiled, for he knew these excuses to be weak ones, made by a man determined to be unhappy. "I see now that you can not free yourself from these bonds, though you wish them broken. Your reasons are reasonable to everyone save yourself. So in mind of the grace you have shown to me I will let you ask a boon. I can make you a traveler as you once were, and I will grant you the freedom that you crave but can not obtain. I will do all things necessary. You need only assent and it shall be done." The Count hearing these words feigned outrage, for others at the table could also hear and knew the intent in Sagir's words, but he could not deny the feeling in his heart. Only when Sagir had waited five minutes did the Count nod and walk away, leaving the Prophet to finish his mess. When the feast had ended, and all men had gone to bed drunk and tired, Sagir crept into the Count's quarters. Seeing the children fast asleep, he took a dinner knife and sliced each one's throat, holding them still as they shook their life out onto his cloak. When he had finished with the two boys he crept into the Countess' chamber, and using the same knife sliced her veins, and covered her mouth as she shuddered. By then, the household had risen in alarm, for a nurse had discovered the two boys dead, and a great wailing resounded from down the halls. Sagir, knowing the Count would be awake as well, climbed out of a window and scaled up to his quarters, and setting himself on the sill, made motion for the Count to follow. Together they descended down on a rope made of bed silk, and at each window they passed Sagir leaped back into the hall and kicked over the grates of the fireplaces. When they had reached the ground, Sagir led the Count out of the city and sat him on a hill overlooking his estate. Together they watched the Count's bonds burn up into the wretched ash that clings to the sky. And the Count, who now realized the gravity of his choice, wept great tears over the grave of the past; and Sagir held him, and the tears soaked into the blood of the Prophet's cloak and washed it away. When the sun rose Brelev and Sagir left west along the Old King's Road, and both were pure of heart and light of step. Chapter 3: Unton the Wanderer, and the Homes Which Were Not Homes After leaving the ruin of his life and having been freed of all responsibility, Brelev embarked upon the path of a wanderer with the sage Sagir, to whom he owed a great deal for his place in life. Children were no freer than them, and they wandered from town to town stealing for their sustenance and sleeping in haystacks. Whenever they would come across a large enough herd, where the rancher was too preoccupied with the keeping of his land compared to the tending of his animals, they would take for themselves a good sized calf, and slaughter it, roasting it by fireside beneath the starry void of night. The two lived as such for many weeks. They made no money and lived without consent of village or chieftain. Sagir would claim he was as a swarm of locusts; no man bid him stay yet none could force him out save by devouring their own hordes. And Brelev and Sagir were truly happy, for sometimes they would come across an inn here or a tavern there, where music was harmonious and the people could dance and sing and they would revel with them, greatly contributing to their merrymaking. And it was at one such inn, in the Northlands along the coast, in a town called Berach, that they came upon a particularly drunk man, who played a dirge from a ballast, and wore a tunic of scattered cloth. The songs he played were of a sweet melody, and those who listened were moved to tears, and hardened hearts softened to pellets of clay. When the troubadour had finished his tune, and had begun to string up his instrument, Sagir and his company approached him. And seeing the sadness in his eyes Sagir spoke thusly toward him. "My good and gracious man, I am the one known as Sagir. Thou playest a song befitting the gods themselves, and the strings do sing sweet melodies to me as thou strummed them. Thou bearest the adoration of the crowd and the majestic bearing of one skilled in one's craft. Why then dost thou sigh? Are not the blessings of this world heaped among those with the competence to bear themselves greatly?" And the musician sighed greatly then and replied thus. "I am Unton, and this town is the town of my people, though I am not from it. I grew up in Muragh, to the south west. This is the town of my father, and his father, and though I did not grow up in this lands I bear a special bond to these people. My childhood was spent here with the kin of my father, and they accepted me and my mother and all of her sons as one of the people. And through that acceptance I took on some of the customs of these people, though I spent most of my time elsewhere, and these customs made me a stranger in my own land. When I had grown up, I took work in this part occasionally, and became even closer to my brethren. But the more I attempted to integrate myself with their customs the more I realized I was not one of them, but had been an outsider in their lands as much as in my own." Upon hearing this, Sagir was puzzled, and bade the man continue his tale. "I have friends and kin in Muragh, and the kin of my mother dwell in the downstream lands of the Kutasi, near the delta. I spent childhood summers there as well, yet I bear no special place in my heart for that land, and neither do the kin of my mother, who have all fled from it. I but love two lands, the land of my birth and the land of my father's birth. But a place accepts half a love much as a woman accepts half a husband. She grows jealous of his half-heartedness, and concocts wild tales as to account for her jealousy. I may blend for a time in Muragh without arising suspicion. I will pass as a kinsman to them and indeed I am, for I descended the womb and dropped firstly upon their soil and was presented before my tribe as one born to their ways. But when I talk to them and commiserate in their halls I out myself as a fraud immediately." And to this Sagir asked him what he meant, for surely one born to the tribe can not be a immigrant to it, especially if he were presented in the traditional way. "Alas," said Unton, "I am an immigrant to both places, for none in Muragh know the means by which goats are raised and grow wary of any man who does. But since I was not raised in Berach, I am not a skilled goatherder, and within a day of being among the shepherds I can not help but out myself as a novice. The men of Berach see me as a child, yet I am a man. And in the same way they fear my skill as a blacksmith, for they too see me as an outsider possessing improper skill in something more easily acquired through trade or violence." "But surely this is something you have struggled with all your days," said Sagir. "For a wanderer is always a wanderer, and a nomad knows no bed save grass beneath the stars. Why do you sigh so now? What has triggered your decline?" Unton began to sob, and his body was wracked by the pangs of grief. "Today is the day of my father's father's funeral. He passed to the next cycle this morning, and was burned this afternoon. A year before my father's mother passed in the next cycle as well. And the year before, my father, and his brother. And with each death I lose my bond to this place, the land of my ancestors. I am separated from the land of my youth though I dwell within it. It no longer exists in reality, but in memory. The space which separated me from Berach is now an impassable chasm. I may yell across but no words will reach them. I know this will be my last time visiting this place, for there are none who accept me here now, and there is no reason to return. Yet my other home has never accepted me and I am alone there as well." "You are stranded between time and space." Sagir spake unto him. "You need cry no longer. For I tell you now that you are blessed. This land nurtured you when you were young, and it gave you talent and knowledge no other place could give. Humans are what give meaning to a space, not the space themselves. And what good does it do you to bear love for soil which does not welcome you. It is the same as any other! Let us go then to the world beyond, to the sky mountains and the subterranean oceans, for they will treat you much the same, and they will give you knowledge and talents that no other place will." But Unton was frightened by Sagir's speech, and he doubted his lot would be better spent on the road then in his old homes. "What good is it to be an outsider in a different land? My grief is because I am an outsider in my own, how much greater would it be among people to whom I am even more foreign?" But his cries fell flat upon the face of strong Sagir, who silenced his dissent with an iron stare and a stormy brow. "Bear me no cowardice! I tell you now the life of an outsider is most envious of all, for it is the breeding grounds of Great Men! Space produces nothing other than space, time devours all meaning! Let us be rid of both, for they will only hinder you on the path to Resurrection!" And with that Unton was amazed, and he fell down upon his feet in adoration for the Prophet. But Sagir beat him with his outstretched palm and bade the man stand. "There are no idols among my horde. There are only men. If you are to follow my lead you must discard your customs, you must maintain your talents, and you must dwell with me beyond the bounds of time and space. So you say that you are an immigrant among your peoples. Yet I shall make you an immigrant among all peoples. An eternal immigrant, that you may gather all the talents of every land and observe their customs without the chains of duty and relation!" And thus Sagir gathered his crew and rallied his horses, and after procuring grain and meat, set forth into the darkened land. Chapter 4: Åkteru, the Bandit, the Separation of Time, the First Miracle After some weeks, Sagir and his troupe rounded the Horn of Imereti and entered the lands of the Übyhke, unsteady foes of the Chérkiss, who traded slaves and stolen goods from one another, and whose borders were abundant with the smoke trees of burning villages. In those days, this was a cruel land, and the towns mercilessly executed their criminals by the ritual of the blood eagle; whereby their skin would be flayed and their shoulder pulled through their chests, in bloody offering to Ptebah, the god of vengeance. Such a ritual was in it's infancy when the company of Sagir strode into the town of Gÿerbey. The gibbet was occupied by one damned soul, and his face was painted with the mark of rapist, in his own blood, as was the custom of those peoples. As the market teamed with business, a shopkeeper here and there would have a word with the prisoner, and after some time the speaker would either reach through the bars and strike him, or grabbing the rotten stock from the bazaar pelt him with mash or vegetables. And the company took pity on this miserable creature, who they knew was on the eve of his death, and they all desired a word with him. After the day was done, and the town had fallen asleep, Sagir approached the cage and motioned for the man to come forth. But the man did not, for he had been beaten all day and feared the coming blows of another angry townsman. But when Sagir called out to him, the man recognized his tongue, and knew that he was a foreigner. "I am the one known as Sagir, I am a traveler and a nomad, and I desire to know who you are and what action has reduced you to this pitiful state." And the prisoner stirred and rose to his feet and came up to the bars in an ecstasy, as one does hearing the tongue of his kinsmen in a foreign land. "I give great blessings unto you Sagir, for what I have left in this world is yours. I am Åkteru, a raider from the same land as yourself. And I find myself caged by my choices in this life, and an ill-fated attempt at reducing my sin and absolving my guilt." "Tell me your tale of woe, O raider," said Sagir, "so that I may see what can be done to ease your time in this world. For you are a wanderer as I am, and you will find my ear sympathetic to your cause." And with that prompting, Åkteru began his story. " 'Once, I was a raider in the party of Ashgab, a chieftain among the Chérkiss, and I rode in his supply train. One summer, many years past, I rode forth with the train and came upon a town, this town in fact. Since it was summer, the men were out raiding as well, and the women and children were left alone to watch the crops. Our goal was not to raze the town, but to make off with their stores, and do so in such a way as to make the least trouble for ourselves or the inhabitants. The granary, where the food was kept, was located in the middle of town, and we were forced to journey through backyards and empty lots so as to avoid detection. We were successful in this regard, and our stealthy endeavor was nearly perfect in its execution, save for one townswoman, a girl of eighteen or so, who stood guard against us with pitchfork in hand and a bell in her belt. While our captain distracted her I came from behind and bludgeoned her, and she fell to the ground in a heap, and we were free to clear the threshold. While I gathered the sacks of grain and loaded them onto nearby carts, my companions bundled up the girl with hemp and loaded her as well. When we left the town we left loaded with food and flesh. The girl rode with us for a week as we made our way through the countryside, and she was made to satisfy our masculine pleasures. I am ashamed to say that I too had my way with her, and this forms the impetus for the rest of my story.' 'When we were to leave the country and return to our own, the men of the train felt they could fetch a hefty price at the flesh market, for though deflowered the girl was still a beauty, and her face yet soft with the milk of youth. The captain of our train commanded me to take her to the flesh market and return with gold, so that we may return to the homeland and be wealthy for the year, and live as raiders do, in the pleasure tents of our kinsmen. When I strapped the girl to the horse and led it down toward the market, my heart was moved with pity, for she was a victim of time and fate. Had she not been in that granary when she was she would have still been a free woman, and have the chance of marrying a husband of high renown. But time had left her in my clutches, and fate had moved her thus into a terrible state. And as I strode into the market, girl now unloaded and bound in hand, I understood that time had bound us both to our fates, and that I had a chance to alter hers, so that she might have some semblance of a life outside of this world. So I let her go, and told her to run, and pilfered the gold she would have fetched from the market stalls, so as to arouse no suspicion from my kin.' 'Years went by, I was moved to Ashgab's Guard, and no longer was forced to raid and pillage for sustenance. Though I killed a thousand men I could not escape from the moment when I took that girl, and from the moment when I let her free. My sense of time was bound to that event, and though seasons came and went; styles flourished and waned; friendships formed, blossomed, and died, I still reckoned happenings by whether they occurred before or after my time with the girl. Guilt eroded my soul, and I could not bear any longer the weight of my crimes, and knew I must make amends, whatever the cost.' 'I took my leave from the guard, and after settling my affairs, journeyed back to this place. Before I had passed the gates I was accosted by the militia. I was beaten down and cut in a hundred places and bound and brought before the chieftain. And in that audience I saw the girl, now a woman, from all those years before. In front of the whole assembly I proclaimed my guilt and announced my remorse and my intent to accept whatever punishment which was to be meted out. The girl saw me, and she heard my tale of woe, and she recalled how I had set her free in the market. And in response to my heartfelt appeal, she picked up a brick and she beat my brow, and kicked me. The mass joined her again in this public thrashing, whereby when they had finished they hauled me off to this cage and wrote my sentence in blood upon my face, and told me that I would die tomorrow by the ritual of the Blood Eagle. I bore these indignities resolutely, and accepted the blows hurled upon me, and I understood this as the punishment due to a rapist, and a thief. But my guilt was not relieved. The girl did not forgive me, though I had saved her from further bondage. She heard the appeal of a guilty man, remorsefully made, and spat upon it.'" Sagir laughed heartily, and said to the prisoner, "why would you have assumed any differently? You altered her life as she altered yours. She is set upon the path that fate assigned her as are you. Why would you think time would relieve her of her wounds when it could not relieve you of your guilt?" The prisoner sighed. "I did not expect her to have forgotten the wrongs committed against her honour. I expected time to have softened her heart, as it did mine. For I was once a raider in the supply train and became a member of a chieftain's entourage and I left it all to accept punishment in a foreign land, for an evil committed in times of war. I did not even expect her forgiveness, however a wild hope that might have been. But these punishments have done nothing to alleviate my guilt, nor has my victim's rebuke. With this trial, I will be dead, and this girl will no longer be tortured by my escape from justice. And in time she will heal. But I will not, I will die a guilty man. These punishments will not release me from my sin, and my soul will drift about the dream an angry and wild spectre, screaming curses into the wind and the sea." Sagir, upon hearing this, spoke up and silenced the man's blubbering. "When a man has an evil done to him, he is trapped at that point in time. He will build up a grudge, and he will stew in his malice, and he will lash out at anything which perturbs him. But, when he sees his aggressor slain, and their corpse strung up upon the block, there is still no relief for him. A thousand justices will give him no peace, and a million dead criminals will do nothing to satiate his hate. Ultimately, no outside force can provide closure for the victim, it is only when the victim finally lets go of the wrong done to him, and chooses to move on, that he will free himself from his enslavement to that time. But what no priest or judge will ever admit, and what counsel is provided to no convict, is that the same process applies to the criminal. Nothing frees the evil man from his sin except his own will. No forgiveness is enough save the forgiveness of one's own soul. No justice may be so grave as to release your guilt without your say-so. Rituals of death and law are imposed by society; these justices imposed are impotent in the face of the torture which the guilty soul inflicts upon itself. But I tell you now these pains are pointless, for at any time you may relieve yourself of sin as a dog shitting on the side of the road. You can bear no weight of sin if you choose not to carry such a burden. I tell you as a wanderer and a nomad that the heaviness of your guilt will be lighter than your bedroll, no matter what you do, should you always choice to let it go once you receive it." Now Åkteru was amazed, for he now understood how futile his penance had been. At once he fell into the deepest despair with regard to his position, and sobbed regrettably for how casually he had thrown his life away. But Sagir seeing this, took pity on him and told him, "Åkteru, I tell you as I am wanderer and a nomad, I am also a miracle man. As I have worked a miracle in your inner life I will now work one in your outer life. I tell you when the moon is highest in the sky, a great calamity will shake the foundation of this place. Your gate will be unlocked, and you will no longer need to worry about your victim. After you escape, you may join me, and be welcome in my company. For I am a Timeless Wanderer, and bind myself to no period and to no place. You will be free to move on as you see fit." When he said these things he left, and his entourage with him. That night, as the moon rode highest in the sky, Åkteru felt the earth creak and moan beneath him. For behold, as Sagir had said, the square broke in two, and the towers of his judges fell. When Åkteru left his open cell and journeyed to the edge of town he turned to look at the place where his guilt had lived and died and watched the granary, the tower where his accuser lived, fall. And clear of heart and free of mind he went down into Sagir's company and left that place for all eternity. Chapter 5: The Gathering of the Beshiks; A Short Account of Kapet, Chief Among Them For many months had Sagir ventured on the disparate roads of Colchesia, and had supped in the halls of every land from Laz to Sholené. Wherever he went, his fame went before him and where once he had recruited new men to his horde now men sought him out. In two years of travelling Sagir had gathered a mighty company; some skilled horsemen, some learned in the arts of the blade, some tutored in the arts of love and poetry. By the time Sagir had traveled all the lands and returned to his hermitage in the mountains of Kartvelash he had gathered unto himself 13 '''companions. Every lord, when he gave fresh orders to his retinue, bade caution should they encounter a company of '''13, '''and bear them closer inspection should they attempt to thread past the city gates, or take up rest in the castle inn. But when Sagir and his mighty horde beat down the road to their next pillage the thunder of their horses' hooves sounded the alarm ahead of them, and men could do little to stall them on their path of destruction. Sagir referred to these '''13 as his Beshiks, and they were closest to his heart and bore his affection in their breasts and their swords. The 13 '''were as follows: '''Brelev, strong in arm, a master swordsman and former lord of the Degë, whom Sagir reaped from his life of seigneurial bondage and set upon the traveller's road. His sign was the constellation of THE LORD. Unton, minstrel and blacksmith, who played from his forge sweet melodies upon both the ballast and the anvil, and whose scimitar was named Bzegegin, or Wanderer. ''His sign was the constellation of THE FOREIGNER. 'Åkteru', plucked from his cell in the town of his accuser, now free to ride guiltless across the plain as a rake and a ravager, a foe to all men. His sign was the constellation of THE RAIDER. '''Mikjélo' the Erudite, a theologian schooled in the rites of Arkbal, now learned in the rituals of pleasure and control. His sign was the constellation of THE MAGICIAN. Ashandi, a man of means, his ships gather goods from across the ocean. With a coat full of spice and metal, he trades the world for wealth, and knows the value of all things. His sign is THE MERCHANT. Röxhi, bookmaker and dice thrower, who paid his way on ship or caravan with money won by a pair of golden dice. His sign was the constellation of THE DEGENERATE. Gurnejala, master of the marine, who legs were ripped apart by a great leviathan and replaced with the twin tusks of a walrus. His sign was the constellation of THE SAILOR. Mortke, once a disgraced courtesan, now the foremost diviner of men's vices, her satchel contained more poisons and salves than any apothecary. Her sign is the constellation of THE PRIESTESS. Palah, a huntress of the eastern Hemjahs, living feral off the milk of deer and moose. It was said that her bow was strung so tightly that when she fired she could strip the mortar between two bricks from 1000 yards away. Her sign is the constellation of THE VANGUARD. Zaborna, a servant of low birth, who never knew her parents, and was traded between houses as a slave for every need imaginable. Years in the grip of oppression taught her the ways by which the weak may bind the strong, and rob them of their strength. Her sign is the constellation of THE SLAVE. Mamzogh, once a captain who defended the walls of Dortseti, now a crusader for the cult of man, the liberator of all free will and the defender of the camp. His sign is the constellation of THE REVOLUTIONARY. Zyendyn, magistrate from the lands of the north across the sea. A foreign arbitrator who executed his judgment upon those who would wrong him, a sentence which was always paid in blood. His sign is the constellation of THE JUDGE. Last among that company, yet greatest among them, was Kapet. '''Orphaned at birth, delivered by the axe, he laid bloody upon his cord till a sow bear mistook him for her young and scooped him up. She raised him till the age of three, when she pushed him out with the rest of her cubs, to make his way in the world. At five, he tamed two wolves, who then brought him fresh kill, and he lived on raw soiled meat until manhood. His home was a mud hut, braced by poplar and wattled with mud from the bogs. At seven he baked the hut by constructing furnaces on each side wall, and sat in the center for warmth. The heat burned off all his hair, which is why he was known as the Young One, for even in his elder days he remained hairless as a babe, and bore a child's face on his death bed. Of all the Beshik he was most like Sagir, who called him the First Adyghë, a Child of God. His sign was THE VOID, the blackness between the stars, which envelopes and encases their light, which remains after the last star has blinked out, and is the state to which all nature returns. '''Chapter 6: The Sermon on the Gnoll With the newness of spring comes the clearing of the mountain slopes, and after resting at his hermitage in the Kartvelash for the winter, Sagir and his band bristled after months of languish, and desired greatly to go once more into the world and make their mark upon it. With the turning of the first moon, they left the hermitage and went down into the mountain valleys, reigned by the whistle-berries and holly trees, and sampled the ice wine of yesteryear's missed fruit. Brelev and Mamzogh gathered brush, while Mortke pounded the berries into jam, sweetened with leaves of monk-fruit. Ashandilizar chased down two stags and strangled them, while Åkteru hauled the beasts back to camp. The campfire roared and the prey was roasted atop the open fire, while Unton strummed a dirge to shake tears from the mountain. And in the twilight, with the sun seeking sleep below the belt of the horizon, all Beshiks turned in silence to Sagir, the teacher, who sat among them shirtless and hirsute, as a bear does when he sees a man, and stalks him for some time before he determines if he is friend or food. The wind whistled through the trees in that liminal time, and for any man who might have passed by, the '''13 '''would have appeared statues ringing an altar, glorifying the presence of the Teacher. In the midst of that vacuum, Sagir asked a question. "Is it better to live or die?" the Teacher asked his companions. Category:Colcheshian Category:Religion